


Mama Said

by begonias



Category: Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency (TV 2016)
Genre: M/M, Pararibulitis (Dirk Gently)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-10-01
Packaged: 2019-07-23 11:52:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16158440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/begonias/pseuds/begonias
Summary: Todd is very possibly dead. The universe is very possibly out of order. Dirk doesn't respond well to either of these things.





	Mama Said

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my first time ever publishing something on AO3, so forgive me if there are any formatting issues. And not to worry, more will be uncovered in the near future. Please enjoy! :)

Farah’s hands are currently clenched so tightly around the steering wheel that her knuckles are turning white. She’d never show it – in fact, she makes it a point to go exceptionally far out of her way to make sure no signs are visible at any time – but she’s anxious. Not like that’s anything new for her, but it’s especially bad right now, concentrated in a way that makes her feel like there’s a cavernous pit in her stomach. Her reluctance to share her feelings comes from her family’s military-esque forms of compartmentalization. 

Unfortunately, however, she was never as good at shielding as Eddie. 

She cuts herself off there, not letting her thoughts linger too long on her family. She needs to be calm. Right now, one of them has to be calm.

Todd is probably dead. This likely scenario, these words, keep repeating like some sort of demented skipping record in her head. Sometimes, she really hates her brain and its rationality, wishing she could cling onto hope instead. Not for the first time, she feels tears burning her eyes, that familiar thickness building in her throat. Right now, with Dirk sitting next to her, she doesn’t have the luxury to cry. She has to be calm because if she’s not, Dirk sure as hell won’t be either. 

All she’s trying to do is control her breathing, retain any form of composure, remain calm. She is trying not to lash out at the man sitting beside her. 

After all, it’s not his fault that he’s overwhelmed. She shouldn’t be annoyed, but a lot of time spent with Dirk is an experience unlike any other Farah has ever had and she almost makes a mental note to ask Todd how he does it so often when her brain almost short circuits attempting to complete the thought. She tries not to think about how she might not ever get to ask him anything ever again.

Dirk’s hunched up in the passenger seat. He’s not taking the same precaution as her to keep his anxieties hidden. The poor guy, he’s a bundle of nerves, a mess. He won’t stop sprouting off tidbits of information – stuff about the interconnectedness of the universe around them and how it all feels different, about former cases involving missing doorknobs, and something about Todd’s morning routine, which Dirk somehow knows. 

He's got the oldies station on, turned down low. He tells Farah that it's on because it feels right, feels relevant. She's learned to trust his hunches. Loose strains of the Shirelles play. She tries not to think about the kind of music Todd listened (listens?) to. 

Todd is probably dead.

That’s what this is all about. 

She looks over at Dirk. The streetlights make his face glow a bright orange-yellow against the clear night. He looks gaunt and shaken and he’s been crying a bit on and off ever since they got that fucking package. He’s biting his lip hard, and suddenly she’s snapped from her reverie of annoyance and feels crushing sympathy instead. She relinquishes her tight grip on the steering wheel and places one hand on top of Dirk’s.

Todd is probably dead. And if he’s not, he will be if they don’t find him soon enough.

When Farah woke up this morning, she was able to forget, for just a split second, that anything was wrong. There was a blissful ten second period before it all came rushing back to her.

A package. A bloody shirt. An absolutely shell-shocked Dirk.

She didn't even have time to yell at Dirk for not waking her up. “The universe feels broken,” he said in that moment, and he was sitting at the sole wooden chair the crummy motel had to offer, ramrod straight. It didn’t seem like he was talking to her or to anyone in particular, his eyes locked on what was held in his hands. He looked devastated, eyes red. “I mean, here it is, leading me to this, yet I’ve never felt so lost in my life. Like always, answers just lead to more questions.” 

“Dirk…” she started, knowing a few more minutes of sleep was out of the equation when he was looking at her like that. Seeing what was in his hand, what looked to be a black t-shirt upon first inspection, forced her into action. She stood up right away and was at his side. 

The t-shirt. It was Mexican Funeral, a hole in the side. Stained in blood.

In that moment, she had to flip off her subjective brain. She had to remain focused, triage the situation. There was a hole in the side of the t-shirt, dried blood covering most of it yet blending into the dark fabric. This much blood could prove to be fatal depending on the resources and care available. Farah couldn’t help but think that Todd probably didn’t have medical supplies at hand wherever he was.

She cleared her throat then, and grabbed Dirk’s shoulder. She didn’t have to say anything, but a shared glance between them told her everything she needed to know: Dirk may be an optimist, but he really seemed to get it, if not grudgingly. He knew the harsh reality of this package. What it meant. 

Farah snaps back to the present, and has to restrain herself from physically shaking her head to clear the memory of this morning. The Shirelles are still singing. They ground her.

“Dirk,” Farah tries, mostly as an attempt to cut off Dirk’s nervous rambling, “have you gotten in touch with Amanda yet?” 

“I, uh, no, I haven’t.” His expression is unreadable, perhaps uncharacteristically a bit angry. Farah gets his frustration: it’s a life or death scenario for her brother and she doesn’t even pick up to the multitude of Dirk’s frantic calls, texts, and voicemails. 

On the other hand, Farah gets Amanda. She doesn’t know the full extent of Amanda’s anger, and probably never will. She’ll never experience firsthand what it was like to live as she had, and it is not Farah’s place to tell Amanda to forgive someone who has wronged her. 

But having her and the Rowdy 3 as backup would be a great addition to this attempted rescue…mission…thing. 

Farah realizes her hand is still on Dirk’s. At one in the morning, there’s little to no traffic on the worn down highways, and she drives with one hand still clenched on the wheel. Dirk gives her other hand a squeeze. It’s more reassuring than he probably knows. 

“We’ll keep trying.” She keeps her voice sounding sure, more legitimate than she could actually have any hope of being. Confidence and leadership is what Dirk needs right now. “She might be traversing the plains of another alternate universe, for all we know.” 

“I guess it’s one that doesn’t have cell reception.” If it was Todd who had said this, Farah would almost laugh it off, chalk it up to his cynicism. But it’s not Todd, it’s Dirk, who is proving to be less chipper and far more multifaceted than Farah could have ever guessed. 

But she knows how he is. Knows how he would react to the idea of Todd dying. She knows how important Todd is. 

Oh, God. Her throat closes up again. 

Todd is probably dead. 

She’ll never voice this out loud. 

Whether he is or not, they’re going to find him.


End file.
